


Ain't No Fortunate Son

by Goodluckdetective (scorpiontales)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-31 06:30:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6459538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiontales/pseuds/Goodluckdetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On army record, his name is Richard Simmons.</p><p>On his birth certificate his name is Richard Hargrove. </p><p>It's strange, Simmons thinks, how that really changes nothing at all.</p><p>(Where Hargrove is Simmons Dad, a drabble collection)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Here is the truth of the matter; his last name really isn’t Simmons.

    It’s his mother’s surname actually, something Simmons wrote down on the fly when they asked him for a last name that no longer truly felt like his own. He was surprised when they took it as fact without checking, something to show for the fact checking division of the USNC he supposes, and unwilling to admit he lied on his official records, he’s been Richard Simmons ever since.

    It’s a good name, he thinks, even with the jokes that come with it. Reminds him of his Grandparents on his mother’s side, gentle people who owned a small farm in Texas. Simmons spent his summers there as a kid, shoeless and delighted, his brothers often chasing him through the reeds that lingered near the edge of the farm. Even after they died, their place felt like more of a home than his family mansion in Virginia ever did.  

    As a result, Simmons feels like a better last name, a more accurate portrayal of the man he has grown up to be. An echo of his grandfather’s laugh, and his grandmother’s handwriting on the morning crossword puzzles. Not the face sneering back at them.

    Hargrove. Proud, hard and so stern.

    The word Dad lingers on Simmons lips until he remembers the man hasn’t had the right to be called his father since he kicked him out of the house at seventeen.

    He doesn’t look at Simmons during the entire call, which Simmons supposes is a relief, because it feels normal, feels like the last months he spent back home when he was all but disinherited. Epsilon keeps his voice steady as he delivers their message and Simmons keeps his head high at the scowl that stares back at them.

    How disappointed he must be, Simmons thinks, to see him alive and kicking despite his efforts.

    When Epsilon finishes his speech, Hargrove looks at them all. Sneers in a way that is almost comical. His gaze brushes past each of the men he has just tried to kill. He lingers on his eldest son for only a fraction longer than the rest. Enough for Simmons to get the message.

_You’re a disappointment_

    Simmons stomach turns but it isn’t enough to stop the grin from spreading across his face. A disappointment? To this monster of a man? It’s a bigger honor than any award he’s ever won.

    “Fuck you Sir,” he whispers into his helmet, soft enough so no one hears.

    On record, his name is Richard Hargrove.

    He’s never been happier to not live up to the name.


	2. Truth

For a brief moment, just a flicker of time really, Simmons thinks his father is finally proud of him.

It’s what he wanted after all from Simmons, an accomplishment, something to add to the family brand. With John and Alex as a doctor and lawyer respectively, a war hero would likely be a grand addition to the Hargrove list of accomplishments, even if it was from the son whose preferences he considered “a shame to the family line.” Simmons’ brain didn’t go overboard in the imagining, no Hargrove would not be one for a hug and a tear stained mention of his name, but perhaps he would mention the relation at least. Pin the metal a little longer. Maybe put his hand on his shoulder. Something.

Hargrove turns to him, metal in hand. His eyes are blank. “Richard Simmons? Your award.”

To the audience, his tone is that of a man giving an award to a solider he has never met. To Simmons, it is an insult.

He doesn’t know what he expected. When it came to his father, optimism has never gotten him far.

“Chairman Hargrove,” he says in return.

He can’t help but smirk when Hargrove’s eyes narrow when he leaves out the Sir.


	3. Chapter 3

“So…your Dad.”

Simmons sighed, turning away from the door he’s kept locked for the last few days. Since the news dropped. “Here to ask 20 questions?”

Simmons wouldn’t blame him if that was the plan. The proper reaction to finding out your partner of almost a decade has been fighting his Father in a war should be to bombard them with questions. Simmons already had the answers written up in his head, organized, ready for the day the news media finally got him at a podium like they wanted.

_Did you know? Yes._

_Did he know? Before I did._

_How was your relationship? Terrible._

_Did he try to get you on his side? Like he would talk to me for over five minutes._

“Nah. Just one.” A hand rested on his shoulder, steady. “You okay?”

Simmons resisted the urge to curl in on himself. “My father is a war criminal who just tried to kill us all. I think the answer is a firm no.” 

There was a soft chuckle at that. Grif’s chuckle. The one that he used when everything was so terrible that is was almost funny. 

“You’re not mad I didn’t tell you this?” Simmons said. There was a pause.

“I’m pretty furious. But I’m pretty sure I can repress it for now till you have all this emotional shit dealt with.”

It was Simmons’ time to chuckle. “You’re gonna have to wait awhile on that one.”

“Waited longer for you. I think I can handle it.”

The silence pressed on. 


	4. Chapter 4

Simmons visits him in jail exactly once.

It’s stupid and he knows it, stupid to think this will give him closure or anything, but he does it anyway. Because his Mom asked him to ( _”it’s worth a try, Richard”_ ) his brothers want answers (” _how could he do this?_ ”) and apparently he’s the only man who can give them a truth they’ll believe.

So he visits. Grif offers to come with. As emotional support. Simmons says no.

He’s not that stupid.

“Dad,” he says, sitting down in the visitor’s chair. Hargrove looks terrible in orange he things, the color doesn’t suit him, but then again, it doesn’t really suit anyone. He makes sure to meet the man’s gaze behind the glass, that glare than has haunted him since he was ten. 

Hargrove says nothing. 

“Mom wanted me to come,” he says, because he might as well be up front about this. “And John and Alex want answers. I’m just here for them.” 

Stone cold silence.

“What? Not even a belittling comment? Or words for them?”

Nothing.

Simmons reaches up and presses his temples. He can feel a migraine building. “Dad, please don’t do this. All you gotta do is like give me a sentence here and I can leave.”

Hargrove glares at him like he is looking past every accomplishment, every year of growth, and only seeing the scared boy who still wakes up wanting to please.

“So this is it then? The silence treatment.” Simmons gets up. “Won’t even tell me something to pass onto the perfect sons, that’s how much you hate me?” He leans in, snarling. “Well fine. Feeling is mutual.”

Spitting on the glass probably is against code, but it’s worth it for the way Hargrove flinches when the spit makes contact.  


	5. Chapter 5

Two days after Hargrove goes to prison, two days after everyone figures out that Simmons stating his father was the worst wasn’t an understatement, Simmons gets a call from his brother.

He doesn’t remember a lot of it. To be fair, he was pumped full of drugs at the time, still recovering from his injuries on the Staff of Charon. In fact all he remembers is James voice over the phone and him mumbling something back before passing out.

According to James on a phone call, a week later, he said “I told you Dad was the fucking worst.”

James looks older, and Simmons feels a little stupid for being so situated on that fact when they haven’t seen each other in over a decade. The last time they talked, James had still been in high school, and Simmons had enlisted just to prove himself more than a failure to his father. Now, James was an adult accountant who was married with three kids.

Simmons, on the other hand, was a war hero with two missing limbs, some organs, and a shitty boyfriend. As far as life comparisons went, they couldn’t be more apart.

“Alex is in denial about the whole thing,” James says. He has a beard, Simmons thinks. He never thought he’d actually grow it out. “Keeps watching the news to see the whole thing is a sick joke. But he’s wearing down with the evidence. I told him not to call you until he wouldn’t ask too many questions.”

Simmons thinks of Alex. Last time they talked, he was a Freshman. According to James, he now plays hockey, and owns a pet rescue center. Simmons wonders if he has a beard too.

He realizes after a second, that out of all the questions he could ask about his youngest brother, facial hair should not be high on his list.

“I don’t need protecting, James,” Simmons says, and he feels a bit like an older brother again, even though he never really commanded any respect in those days like he does now. “He can call me.”

“He’s just gonna want to talk about Dad.”  
  
“And I’ll tell him Dad can get bent. The end.”

James stares at him with wide eyes and Simmons thinks he might have misspoke until he says “you’ve changed.” 

Simmons is tempted to laugh. What an understatement. He’s been in the army for years. He’s gone from being a lab rat to a Captain. He’s fought a war. He’s watched his father appear on a screen, the same father who refused to speak to him like more than a solider during the awards ceremony for dismantling  Project Freelancer, and declare himself intent on watching them all die. If he hadn’t changed, he’d be dead.

That seems rather heavy to put on his brother though, so instead he asks something easier. 

“So, I’m an Uncle. Please tell me you didn’t name any of them Dick.” 

He did, unfortunately, and Simmons feels sorry for his nephew. They do not talk about their mother who is in a firmer sort of denial, nor to they talk about their father, waiting for his trial for multiple war crimes. They talk about kids. Grif. The beard.

“Dad said he spoke to you at the ceremony. After that award you won,” James says out of the blue when the conversation is lulling. “He said he told you he was proud of you. Was that true?”  
  
Simmons thinks of the truth. Of silence and the lies his father has spread. And tells one of his own.  
  
“Yes, it was.”


	6. Chapter 6

Carolina offers him a drink, after the news comes out.

Well, it’s not so much as offers. She practically shoves a glass of what smells to be vodka in his hand as soon as she sees him alone next. She’s out of armor, a rarity, and when he looks at her eyes, they’re full of understanding, not pity.

That’s good. Simmons hates pity.

“Thought you might want some,” Carolina says, voice neutral. Simmons sniffs at the glass, there has to be more than vodka in there, and passes it back.

“Can’t drink.” He points to his robotic arm. “Cyborg parts can’t process it.”

“So you can’t get drunk.”

“No.”

Carolina looks at him for a long moment before downing the glass herself in one gulp, not even flinching. It’s a side effect of sneaking booze out of parent’s liquor cabinets, Simmons thinks, taking a little from each, not enough to be noticed, but enough to make a glass of something horrific but effective.

Or it could just be a Freelancer thing. Or tolerance. But given the up cropping of similarities in their childhoods as of late, Simmons thinks his first hunch is likely the right one. 

“You know,” Carolina says later, not drunk, but probably as close as she’s going to get. “He didn’t attend my graduation. Told me he’d come by when something was more important.”

Simmons Dad, Hargrove he reminds himself, because that’s reality now, the reality he has to live with, did show to his graduation. He took pictures, gave him a hug, clapped. But his mouth was a stern line the entire time. Like he was watching stock numbers come through than he son walk on a stage.

One week later, he shut him out from the family, and Simmons was left with no way to pay college besides a recruiting booth. 

“I didn’t know the A.I was based after him,” Carolina says, leaning back in her chair. “I didn’t know until later. After he ripped it apart.”

And there’s a thought, Simmons thinks. Hargrove as a brain scan, another Hargrove, another person to disappoint. Or one to finally impress, if his situation were to turn out like Carolina’s. 

He wonders what it would be like if they switched families. Carolina Hargrove. Richard Church. Would they have been disappointments in these new structures? Or would they be what their parents wanted? 

Simmons has no good answers to that question.

He doubts there are any.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The brothers arrive on Chorus

Simmons’ brothers visit Chorus two months after Charon sent everything crashing down.

Simmons told them they didn’t have to, when they floated the idea in his direction. Chorus was far away, and they had busy lives back on Earth. But they’d insisted, buying the tickets for the fastest shuttle they could afford. 

Simmons was glad they were only able to get a flight until two months after everything went down. If they’d come here right after, they would be forced to take in the bandages wrapped around Simmons limbs, the broken arm, the pale pallor to his skin that screamed that he’d been through hell. Visible evidence of what his father had put him through. All for some money and some alien tech.

When they arrive, Grif insists on coming with. Simmons doesn’t bother to try to argue with him, he’s not sure he has energy for it after all the UNSC interviews about Hargrove and his relationship to the man. Grif agrees to stay in the Warthog instead of waiting in the shuttle bay with Simmons, just so Simmons can see them on his own terms first.

“You did the same with Kai,” Grif says. “Might as well return the favor.”

Simmons had done the same with Kai, but both men know that these situations are nothing alike. Kai had been a happy reunion, one with hugs and blubbering. Simmons’ brothers? The only thing Simmons has guaranteed is that their father’s shadow will hang over the entire conversation.  

Honestly, he’s glad Grif drove him here, Simmons thinks as he waits in the shuttle bay. If things went to shit, Grif would drive him away without his brothers, no questions asked. 

His palms sweat as the shuttle lands, and he tries very hard not to twitch too much. The shuttle today is mostly relief groups, folks sent from Earth to help with rebuilding, and Simmons is sure he’s one of the few people waiting for a family member rather than an employee. The relief crew exits first, already in full gear and Simmons watches as they meet up with a soldier to take them to the nearest settlement. A few of them salute Simmons as they walk by, awe in their eyes.

His brothers are the last two off. Simmons only recognizes them from their com talks: they are almost unrecognizable to the teenagers he once knew. They even look different from when he saw them through a screen three years ago, talking about an award he’d won by a man who pretended not to recognize him. James has a beard now, though he’s trimmed it since they last talked, and Simmons can’t help but be awed at how tall he is as he walked through the exit door. Back when they were kids, James was a lanky thing, the shortest of them all despite being the middle child. Now he had more meat to his bones, his once perfectly trimmed haircut a little messy. The freckles that cover his face are one of the few things Simmon’s recognizes. 

Alexander is next out. He’s built like Caboose now, not a surprise since he plays professional hockey, but still off-putting. His face has lost any of the baby fat it once had, and Simmons is surprised to find him wearing glasses. He doesn’t have a beard, but his red hair hangs past his ears, long enough to put in a short ponytail. 

When they see him, they freeze. They look tired, Simmons thinks, dark circles under both of their eyes. And afraid. Like they’re kids again and frightened of what will happen when they start failing their father’s expectations. Frightened of what happened to Simmons repeating itself.

God, their childhoods were so fucked, Simmons thinks. He pushes the thought away. He’ll have more than enough time to dwell on it later. Instead he falls back into a role he knows, one he hasn’t played in years. The role of the big brother, desperate for their father’s approval but not desperate enough to force his father’s expectations on his brothers in turn. 

“Hey guys,” he says with a wave. Alexander flinches and Simmons remembers he hasn’t seen his robot arm over the coms yet. He sighs. “Please tell me you’re not going to stand there staring for the next hour cus we got-”

He doesn’t finish. Alexander has dropped his bag and wrapped him into an uncomfortably tight hug. Which is just unusual, because when they were kids, Simmons can remember the times they hugged on one hand. Like when he left for the army, disinherited and determined to make something of himself. 

“Dick.” Alexander says and for a big guy his voice sounds watery. Simmons reaches up to pat his back. He was always a crier when he thought Dad wasn’t looking. Simmons remembers the tears he got all over his basic uniform when he left.

“Hey Alex” he looks over Alexander’s shoulder and looks to James, mouthing “help me.” A smile breaks across James’ face, and Simmons doesn’t miss how red his eyes are. When Alexander lets go of him, James is quick to take his place, his hug more gentle but no less firm. 

“You look so different!” Alexander says when they’re done with their respective blubbering. His winces as soon as he says it. “I mean, not cus of the robot-”

Simmons waves his concern off. “It’s cool. I didn’t leave with metal plating after all.” Alexander looks even more upset. Simmons taps at his robotic eye. “It isn’t a total loss. Got perfect vision in this eye now. Save half on all my eye doctor bills.”

“Have you even seen an eye doctor recently?” James says. He’s less a visible mess than Alexander; James had always been better in a crisis. He’s probably holding it together for Alexander. Like Simmons used to hold it together for the both of them.

“Depends on your definition of an eye doctor. Does a mad scientist count?”

“As long as it’s covered by insurance.”

That gets all of them laughing. They head out of the loading bay, making small talk. James talks about his three kids and Simmons is sure he’ll be bombarded with photos when they get to his place. Alexander, on the other hand, tries to convince him to adopt a dog for half the walk. Simmons doesn’t mind; he’s happy to avoid the elephant in the room. 

Grif doesn’t bother getting out of the warthog when they arrive, and Simmons chastises him for it. They get into their usual banter for a bit, trading barbs and it takes Simmons a full minute to remember they have company. He looks over at his brothers. They look like they're trying not to stare at Grif’s mismatched skin that speaks of a surgery from a lifetime ago. Simmons wonders if they notice the patches of pale skin match Simmons own. 

They don’t really know who Grif is, Simmons realizes, besides the fact that Simmons talks about him all the time. For a moment, Simmons considers sticking to “squadmate” as a descriptor, just to keep everything uncomplicated. Then he remembers his father, the same man locked up in a prison in one of the UNSC ships that landed a month ago. 

Fuck it. He’s done lying for his family's sake. 

“This is my...partner Grif,” Simmons says, waving his hands awkwardly in Grif’s direction. His brothers start, snapping out of their staring. Grif just scoffs. 

“Partner? Really Simmons? What are we, a buddy cop comedy?”

“The only other option was boyfriend. Partner seemed to fit better.”

“Partner makes us sound like cowboys. But stuffy and lame. Boyfriend is at least to the point.”

“It makes us sound like we’re in high school!”

“No, stupid pet names would make us sound like we’re in high school.”

“It’s like watching an old married couple.” Grif and Simmons snap out of their bickering to stare at Alexander. Alexander turns a bright red. “Shit, I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

“He’s your younger brother alright, Simmons,” Grif says, leaning his arm on the dash. “He has awkwardness down. We could probably swap you and him out and Sarge wouldn’t even notice.”

Simmons considers that thought for a moment as James steps forward. He holds his hand out to Grif with no hesitation. 

“It’s nice to meet you. Dick has told me a lot about you.”

“About how messy I am, right?”

“No, it was actually pretty flattering.”

Grif shoots him a look. Simmons resists the urge to groan. He’s never going to hear the end of this. 

They all get into the car. The drive back home is filled with small talk and for a moment Simmons feels like this is normal. His father isn’t a mass murderer in prison. His brothers weren’t told he was dead for years on end. It’s just a normal family visit. 

It’s a nice feeling. He rarely has anything “normal” when it comes to family.

His brothers go inside first. Before Grif follows them, Simmons grabs Grif’s arm. 

“Thanks,” he says, under his breath. “For coming.”

Grif is silent. Then he shrugs.

“Wasn’t a big deal.” A smirk crosses his face. “Anyway, it’s nice to hear you had such  _ flattering _ things to say about me.” He turns to the house. “Hey, James, what flattering things did Simmons say about me? I want details.”

Simmons lingers outside. This won’t last forever. Their father will come up eventually, Alexander and James will eventually go and visit him and Simmons will have to answer their questions upon questions. Their mother will call and claim Hargrove has been framed, that he would never do this, and Simmons will have to listen to that and wonder if it’s worth arguing with her instead of hanging up. He will have to put up with horrified looks as pieces fall into place.

But that’s later. For now it’s just his two brothers and Grif. Grif, who no matter where this goes, is going to be around to remind him how bullshit the entire situation is.

It’s enough. 


End file.
